


Strength of a Thousand(and Not One)

by Canislupusarctos



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Denial, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Hashimada Big Bang 2018, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, PTSD, Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, canon character death, identity struggle, implied suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16693375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canislupusarctos/pseuds/Canislupusarctos
Summary: Hashirama Senju always saved everyone.  But to do it, he emptied out himself, losing his identity in the process.  Madara Uchiha was the one to save him, but without Madara, who will save him?Prompt I wrote this for was: you save everyone, but who saves you?Also the title is a play on Tsunade’s Strength of a Hundred seal, and the fact that Senju has “thousand” in it.  That first part is only relevant because Hashirama is Tsunade’s grandfather, and canonically more powerful.  Also, the (and not one) part is because Hashirama saved others, but he didn’t seem to be able to save himself.  The first and last paragraphs of the whole story are from Madara’s perspective.





	1. Butsuma

**Author's Note:**

> See if you can catch the Fullmetal Alchemist references throughout the fic!

You save everyone.  But when you save everyone, what is there left for yourself but a barren wasteland, sucked dry by others?  Why would you choose to save others? Why not be selfish? If you aren’t careful, you’ll have scraped your insides out, to the last scrap.  You’ll become nothing but a hollow, empty shell, nothing of what made you yourself remaining. You’ll have given it all away to others, and lose your identity, your individuality.  And individuality is what defines life. Something is only defined as living, as even a single cell, if it has something to differentiate it, separate it, from the  _ other _ .

 

—————

 

Butsuma Senju returned from the battle in which his parents, the clan’s matriarch and patriarch, had been killed, leaving him the clan head.  He came home to an excited and unaware Hashirama. Still naïve, only five years old, Hashirama ran up to the door before his father could walk through it.  “Chichi-ue! Look! I can do a really cool dōton now!”

 

Still ignorant of the situation and his father’s mood, Hashirama rushed through the hand signs nearly perfectly, performing the rock shelter jutsu.  For an adolescent, it would not have been impressive, but for a five year old, it was beyond any measure. Butsuma was not amused, momentarily forgetting how young his son really was.  He growled angrily, “Hashirama.”

 

Despite his youth, Hashirama was very emotionally astute, and picked up on the social cues his father was sending.  Excitement dying down in under a second, he seemed to grow years older, face solemn but kind. “What happened, chichi-ue?”

 

Butsuma snarled, “Go away, Hashirama.  Watch Tobirama and get out of my sight.”

 

Hashirama wasn’t so easily cowed.  The words and tone stung, biting away at his soul like hungry beasts, yet he would not be deterred.  “No! I want to help!”

 

Angered by his son’s refusal to be obedient, defying authority in a way he never had, Butsuma yelled, “Your grandparents, the clan head and his wife, my parents, died in battle!  There’s nothing you can do about it, so get out!”

 

“No, chichi-ue!  There’s always something that can be done!  Don’t lock up your feelings! That contradicts your claim that the Senju are the clan of love!  If we are the clan of love, why can’t we express it? If you’ve lost your parents, and you loved them, you should be able to let out your emotions, or that makes us just like the Uchiha!”

 

Hashirama didn’t know this, but Butsuma did not care as much as Hashirama assumed everyone cared.  His heart was too big, and he believed everyone cared as much as he did, hurt as much as he did when bad things happened, wanted to help as much as he did, and was willing to give as much as he was.  “Hashirama, you know nothing. They’re dead, and mourning will do no good. The clan is weakened, and I’m the clan head now. You’ll be clan head after me, and the clan head must not be weak. Mourning will only make you weak.”

 

Within his heart, Hashirama felt something like fire flare, for once untempered by water.  Without sufficient water to douse it, the fire forged the earth that was Hashirama’s heart anew, giving him resolve to do something that would be part of the reason he would become the strongest shinobi, and change his life.  In the end, it would also be part of what killed him. Stepping forward with surprising purpose and strength for someone his age, Hashirama declared, “I will become a medical ninja, the best medical ninja, so I can save everyone, even the dead!  You’re wrong, mourning and grief make you stronger if you survive them! My mourning and grief have made me want to be a medical ninja, so I’ll be able to do something in the future! What do you choose? To allow your emotions to destroy you, or to use them to build your strength?”

 

It wasn’t primarily grief or sorrow Butsuma was feeling.  In the Warring States Period, true love of any kind was rare, and Butsuma had not felt it for his parents.  It was primarily a cold sense of responsibility and anger towards the Uchiha that he was feeling. Yet Hashirama’s words caused a small part of him to stir.  The cold, hard, dead earth of his heart wasn’t quite so dead anymore, moving slightly, threatening to spasm violently, an earthquake of the heart. Tamping it down, stilling the earth of his heart with the pressure of his earth chakra, like millions of tonnes of rock, Butsuma allowed only anger to shine through.  “Hashirama! Don’t speak in such ways! Shinobi must not be emotional. We must fight for our clans and avenge our fallen.”

 

Desperate to save everyone around him, and still possessed of his own identity, not yet an empty shell, Hashirama shot back, “Anger is an emotion too, the one you express, but it doesn’t help anyone!  When you avenge someone, it’s done out of emotion. And avenging doesn’t help anyone! It only begins an endless cycle of violence and killing! The land will forever be stained red with blood if this keeps up.  Even if it doesn’t, I doubt the bloodstains will ever leave, and none of us will come out untouched by this never ending war! We all just need to stop it, to make peace! Do you even know why we fight the Uchiha?  I bet no one does, and I’m sure the Uchiha have no idea why they fight us either, yet we all fight like mindless cattle, slaves to a history we don’t even know!”

 

Butsuma could see Hashirama’s eyes welling up with tears, his self-control not yet fully developed.  That didn’t stop his impulse reaction. Butsuma’s earthen heart quaked despite his best efforts. Something Hashirama had said struck deep within him, the small part that held love and humanity, but instead of allowing his heart to speak to his mind, he channeled the energy of his quaking heart into a powerful slap that connected with Hashirama’s face, sending him flying into the wall.  He made impact with a sickening  _ crunch _ , searing pain racing through his body, fire of his own passion and empathy burning him, and creating a dent in the wall.  Despite this, Hashirama hardly made a sound, stifling his own feelings and pain in favour of relieving the pain of others, bringing it upon himself in the process, the burden growing ever heavier by the day.  At five, he wasn’t fully adept at the art of masking himself, so he let out an almost inaudible gasp of pain, shutting his eyes so Butsuma wouldn’t see the tears of betrayal and physical pain there. Only a single tear drop made its way out of one of his eyes, sparkling in the sunlight that streamed through a crack in the wall, a diamond for an instant, before falling to the ground, pulled down by gravity, as all things are.  As it hit the wooden floor, it seemed to shatter into countless minuscule pieces, shards of diamond flying in every direction for but a few centimetres before being reclaimed by nature, by the wood, as everything is in the end.

 

Butsuma stalked away, the burden in his heart lightened, even if only slightly, leaving his son where he was.  Despite himself, Hashirama smiled, eyes still shut tight. He’d done it, he’d saved his father. Even if he hadn’t done much, he’d lifted some of the heavy burden his father bore onto his own back.  Laughing, mildly hysterical, he reveled in the feeling of his father’s burden and pain, knowing it belonged to him and only him now. No one else would ever have to take a piece of the burden on his own shoulders.  No, he would shoulder the burden of every person, clear their hearts, and allow them to run forward with no hesitation, conscience free, so their hearts would soar, souls blossom, and so they could love and live freely.  And when that day came, when he would shoulder everyone’s burdens as solely his own, there would have to be peace, true peace. There would be no fighting, no need for the medical and combat skills he’d have no doubt acquired by that point.

 

Laughing caused Hashirama’s most likely cracked ribs to throb, putting him in immense pain, but he couldn’t care less.  All that he wanted to do was within in reach, if only he could keep doing what he’d already done. Whispering to himself, he smiled widely, still naïve, “I will save the whole world one day.”

 

—————

 

“Who are you?”

 

Hashirama thought about this for a mere moment.  Who was he? He was Hashirama Senju, heir to the Senju Clan, and he would unite the world in peace someday.  He’d been in battle, but he knew who he was. He was full of life and a unique identity. He’d already taken some of his father’s burden, and sworn to become such a good medical ninja that he would be able to save anyone.  Grinning widely, proud of his unique self, he declared, I’m Hashirama Senju, and I’ll be the best medical ninja ever! Who’re you?”

 

“Touka.  Touka Senju.”


	2. Touka

An eight year old Touka Senju sat behind a building, trying not to cry.  The latest battle was far from her first, but in it, her best friend had died, and Touka had gotten a glimpse of the grotesque truth and reality of mortality, battle, war, and love.  You could choose knowledge, bonds, and kindness at the expense of comfort, safety, and familiarity. Or you could choose familiarity, comfort, and safety at the expense of your compassion, empathy, the ability to form true bonds, and true wisdom and knowledge.  Most shinobi of the era chose the latter, because the pain and burdens of themselves and the others around them were too much to bear. Almost none of them chose to bear the burdens and take on the pain of others in addition to their own. At that very moment, Touka stood at the crossroads between those two paths.  She balanced directly between them, as if on a high up chakra thread, with only two preset paths and an infinite abyss to fall into if she failed to choose, and to commit.

 

Lifting her hand in front of her eyes, fresh, red blood still dripping from it, Touka struggled to keep her expression under control.  Her hand shook, and her mind flashed between past and present. One moment, her shaking hand was above Kiyomi, bleeding out, while Touka herself was unable to do a thing.  She was a warrior, not a medic. Iron-scented blood was what she spilled, not what she tried to keep inside bodies. She held the sword and the kunai that would rend flesh from bone, leaving the battlefield to become soft and squishy with rotting bodies, with the smell of death forever permeating the air, the plants, and the ground.   _ My fault, my fault _ , she thought,  _ do something.   _ The next moment, there was nothing but ordinary earth beneath her hand.  Breathing hard, she laid her hand, stained with Kiyomi’s blood, over her eyes.  Her lips curved upwards into a twisted, broken, hysterical smile, and a dark, maniacal laugh of insanity akin to the caws of ravens, tinged with the sound of crying, echoed in her empty throat, loud in the silence by the time it escaped the cavernous echo chamber that was Touka’s soul.

 

The air, still as if in mourning for all the lives lost, and, seemingly to Touka, in mourning for Kiyomi, was disturbed by a whisper, the fabric of the atmosphere rippling with Touka’s hoarse, one word plea, “Kiyomi…”

 

Eyes still closed, Touka removed her hand from her face to fish for a kunai in her standard shinobi pouch.  Questing fingers finding one, the smooth metal surface easily identifiable, she removed it from the pouch, spinning it around with the same lazy, easy familiarity as a Jounin of Konohagakure might almost a hundred years later.  It spoke volumes that a mere eight year old child soldier should handle a dangerous weapon with closed eyes the same way an apathetic thirty-two year old warrior mentor might with one eye open, even given nearly a century of time separation.  Opening her eyes so she could see the kunai, Touka wondered aloud, “What does it feel like? What did you feel, Kiyomi?”

 

The silvery metal glinted in the sunlight, reminiscent of a flying fish.  It was a deadly weapon that could slice through the air, rending flesh from bone, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.  That destruction could be external, internal, or both, and caused by another, oneself, or both. “I will feel your pain, Kiyomi.”

 

Before Touka could do any more, there was a small yet strong hand on her wrist, holding it in place.  The soft but slightly calloused skin of the other person’s hand was warm, almost burning hot, with life and vitality, so unlike Touka’s clammy skin, devoid of energy.  She could sense the warm whirlwind of chakra, suffused with natural energy, that was characteristic of only one person. “Hashirama. What are you doing?”

 

Once he was sure Touka wasn’t going to continue with what she was doing before he arrived, Hashirama let go of her wrist.  Resolve having faded, Touka’s hand was limp, and the kunai fell out of her grasp, sticking in the ground, as if it wished to return to the earth from which it came, to escape the bloody fate to which it had been bound when it was forged.  Hashirama could sense her internal struggle, seeming as if he could even see Touka’s inner self balanced above an infinite abyss, teetering on a chakra thread, being forced to choose. He wanted to, with his own chakra, make that thin thread one among many, a sea of chakra threads Touka could freely walk upon, not limited entirely by a binary choice.  He would shoulder her pain, as he wished to shoulder the whole world’s, allowing her to choose the path of kindness, knowledge, and bonds without bringing the whole world’s pain crashing down upon her, as it had already upon him.

 

“Touka.  Kiyomi wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself over her death.  She would want you to live your own life and continue to be yourself, only with her memory in your heart to make you stronger and give you something to fight for.”

 

Wiping blood and tears off of her face with the back of her arm, Touka wondered when her younger cousin had become so mature.  Last she’d seen, he’d been a silly little kid who wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between love for food and love for loved ones if you asked him.  Either she’d been very wrong about him(she was) or he’d changed a lot while she wasn’t watching(which was also true, to an extent). “How do you know?”

 

With her words, Touka asked multiple questions, Hashirama knew.  She was asking how he knew Kiyomi was dead, for he hadn’t been present at the day’s battle.  Yet she was also asking how he knew Kiyomi was so important to her, in some ways, beyond simple friendship, for she could tell he somehow knew.  And, most importantly, she was asking how he knew what Kiyomi would want her to do. Hashirama understood the answers himself only to a limited extent.  He may have dreamed grandiose dreams of peace, and been mature for his age, but his remaining naïveté and his immature brain formed an indestructible barrier between him and the full truth and nuance.  “I listened in on the adults. And I’ve seen what your bond with Kiyomi is like.”

 

Hashirama made no mistake with his choice of words.  Kiyomi may have been dead, but true bonds would always transcend the limits of life and death.  Referring to Touka and Kiyomi’s bond in the past tense would only make Touka feel even more alone and empty, in any case.  As with Touka’s words, his own meant more than the individual words outrightly conveyed. The first sentence had been straightforward.  Hashirama had eavesdropped on the adults, and heard the casualty reports. But, when he learned of Kiyomi’s death, because of her bond with Touka, he’d immediately thought to seek out Touka, knowing she would be distraught.  His words also carried the implication that, because Kiyomi cared so much for Touka in life, she would want only the best for her, and to, even in death, bolster her strength and purpose. And somehow, he knew that Touka had loved Kiyomi in a way she would only ever love one another person, Mito, and in a way she would never love any man.  He could not explain in any manner how he knew this.

 

“Hashirama...so you don’t care that I’m…”  _ a lesbian _ , she didn’t say.

 

Shaking his head firmly, Hashirama caught her eye, his own full of confidence and inner strength, and not yet devoid of individuality he would give away to others, and was currently giving some of to Touka.  “I don’t think it matters who anyone loves, or who they are themselves. There shouldn’t be any limits on that. Love is love, right?”

 

_ If only it were that easy _ , both of them thought.  Even so, Touka’s earthen heart was moved, becoming like the soil, able to nurture and support bonds, life, express empathy and kindness, and to soak up knowledge like water, rather than the cold, hard stone of most Senju with earth chakra.  It was almost as if she could feel Kiyomi’s spirit inside her, as well as Hashirama, from outside, lifting her up, supporting her, and ensuring she would never be alone. With that support, she chose her path. She would walk the path of empathy, kindness, bonds, and knowledge.  Though what she did not know was that she would walk that path far more easily than walking that path should be, as Hashirama had already chosen to and succeeded in bearing some of the burden on her shoulders, and some of her pain.

 

In the knowledge that he’d done it again, saved another person he cared for, Hashirama smiled.  He was well on his way to being able to take on the burdens and pain of the whole world, or so he believed.  He still hadn’t yet considered that he might need someone himself, might need someone to shoulder some of his burden, bear some of his pain.  All his young mind registered was that he was one step closer to achieving his dream.

 

—————

 

“Who are you?”

 

This time, Hashirama had to think a little more about what the answer was.  He couldn’t quite understand yet, but there was a little less of him than there had been before.  He was still the heir to the Senju Clan, but was that really a part of his identity? Did he want to inherit, would he inherit the cold, dormant heart of his predecessors?  Would he take on their purposeful ignorance, an earthen shell meant to protect them? No, he decided, he would not. His role as the heir of the Senju Clan was not a part of his identity.  But he was still, at heart, a Senju. Were battle and war a part of his identity? They had shaped him certainly, but no. He was not a warrior at his core, he was merely a child, sick of the unending violence and unwillingness to love.  Were bonds, family and friends, a part of him? Yes, yes they were. Without friends and family, what would Hashirama be? Surely nothing more than an empty shell, devoid of a purpose. It would not do to avoid connections. Doing so would prevent him from ever saving the world.

 

“Kawarama, it’s me, Hashirama!”


	3. Kawarama

Coming home from a battle with the Uchiha, Hashirama was not his usual upbeat self.  It was difficult to pretend you were okay when one of the people you cared for most was dead, whether or not they seemed to care for you in return.  The Uchiha’s jutsu were more horrifying than Hashirama could have imagined before that day. Fire did nothing but consume, an incarnation of the void that lost its purpose to live if it ceased to do so.  That day, it had been tamed and directed by one of the Uchiha to consume his mother, the tendrils of flame licking hungrily at her body until there was nothing left but ash. The other Senju had seemed strangely unaffected by the manner in which she died, only moved by the fact that their clan matriarch was dead.

 

Hashirama wondered how they were able to be so heartless, or why they would even wish to.  If you never loved, truly and fully, you would exist forever in a numbing limbo, hardly feeling, ignorant of the true spectrum of life.  What he wasn’t ready to understand, though, was that by doing the opposite, he was unraveling himself, feeling too much, all of what others brushed off collecting like rain in a watershed, the only one for thousands of miles around.  Somehow, despite the fact that most of the other Senju had shut themselves off from feeling, inside the limbo of an infinite sensory deprivation chamber, they were the ones who craved revenge the most. 

 

“Those Uchiha dogs killed our matriarch now.  We have to kill them.” they growled.

 

“Kill their heir!  I’ve heard he’s weak, so it shouldn’t be too hard.” they cried, vengeance filling their hearts and minds to the brim.

 

“If only their matriarch had died after Butsuma sama fought her years ago!  Then she and their heir would be dead, and the other children of the clan head would never have been born!” they lamented without true sadness.

 

These were all things Hashirama had heard his clan say.  He didn’t understand it. He felt more deeply than they did, though he didn’t understand by how much yet, and he was still the one who tried hard not to internalize feelings of hate and vengeance.  Some still trickled into his body, into his heart, from the very air around him, the invisible, poisonous drops slipping past his lips like water entering the body of a drowning person trying futilely to breathe.  Sometimes he would snap on the battlefield, and find himself going for the kill; but those times were rare. So far, it had only happened once. That one time, Hashirama had immediately dropped his sword after returning home, run off, and emptied the contents of his stomach in the woods, feeling disgusted with himself, the sour, bitter, warm taste of bile and partially digested food in his mouth and throat were, to him, a representation of how he felt in that moment.  

 

He’d wondered,  _ who am I?  I can’t be the person who will save the whole world if I’m willing to kill.  So who-no, what, am I really?  _ Eventually, he’d come to the conclusion that it was simply his clan’s teachings, purely external, and something he could brush off and keep from influencing him.  But the seed of doubt was still within his heart, lying dormant, patiently waiting for the rain to awaken it, so it could sprout and grow into a tree that would strike like a snake from behind, catching Hashirama off guard.  Another seed laid dormant within him, even less conspicuous. It was within the seed of doubt, a mere phantom with the power of negative emotion. From it would sprout the creature that would one day give Hashirama a momentary push over the edge, into a bloody ocean flecked with memories, the turbulent waves raw, painful memories of those who had the most power over him.  The raw power of the ocean, particularly one of blood, memories, and pain, would drive him to snap irreparably, at the worst possible time, and it would be the only time he lost so much control.

 

How was it possible for those who shut themselves off from almost all feeling, from all that he felt, to be the ones who craved revenge the most?  Hashirama thought for sure it would be those who allowed themselves to feel, but didn’t try to empathize with and see through the eyes of everyone, including the Uchiha.  Yet somehow, those who felt, but didn’t try to take on the entire world’s burden, like Touka, wanted revenge, but didn’t hunger for it in the same way those who denied their humanity did.  As the full reality of the situation sank in, Hashirama felt moisture in his eyes.  _ How can anyone think of revenge now?  How far gone do you have to be? _

 

Wiping it away, knowing he had to be strong for his brothers, Tobirama, Itama, and Kawarama, he forced himself to take on a confident position, his expression nearly completely under the control of his conscious mind already, at the age of nine.   _ Well, no matter how far gone they are,  _ he thought,  _ it’s my job to save them!  I’ll do it singlehandedly, too! _

 

Walking through the front door of the house his family lived in, Hashirama found it hard to wear his chosen expression, an appropriately somber, yet confident, sure, and wholehearted mask that hid the shattered pieces of his heart and his wavering confidence and surety.  After all, it was difficult to always be the one left to heal all the damage, and fix all the destruction that Butsuma Senju left in his wake. A door slammed somewhere above Hashirama’s head. No doubt, Tobirama was upset and trying to hide it. But he would be okay for the moment.  It took more than that to break him. Itama was crying in the corner, paying little heed to the drops that ran like rivers across his face and onto his clothes. Instead, he was focusing on holding together the youngest, most psychologically delicate sibling, Kawarama. The scene was like watching a small, vulnerable six year old try to, with his bare hands, hold together an intricate automaton of glass, somehow a life form of its own, shattered into nearly indistinguishable minuscule pieces, in the hopes, the  _ knowledge,  _ from Itama’s point of view, that his oldest brother, Hashirama, would be able to fix it.  While he waited, the glass cut into his hands, hurting him as he tried to save it. And the shattered glass being he held together was his youngest brother, unable to handle the news that their mother had died, particularly with the way their father had delivered the message.  Screaming at a four year old that his mother was dead, gone, burnt to unrecognizable ashes, was sure to end badly, and it had.

 

Kawarama was wailing at the top of his lungs, pounding Itama’s arms with his small fists.  “Let me go! Let me go, Itama! Okaa-san can’t be dead, she can’t be!”

 

A sob wracked Itama’s body, his resolve to hold it back crumbling as he too gave way like glass before the wrecking ball of his father, and of Tobirama’s, but primarily Kawarama’s, reactions.  He looked up at Hashirama, hope and a silent, desperate plea in his eyes. Hashirama’s heart, not cold stone like his father’s, wavered, quaking beneath the intensity of the need of his younger brothers.  He wasn’t sure if he could do it. He was afraid his soft heart, a consequence of his keeping it open and loving, would crumble away under the pressure, his soul shattering like glass before he could fix the already fractured and shattered glass of his brothers’ fire-forged souls, derived from the sands of the shores bordering the water that flowed within many Senju.  

 

Water swirled around earth within Hashirama, mixing to create another, combined chakra nature in his body, one that nurtured life, healed, taking root in his heart, holding it together.  Those roots tightened, as if to keep him from falling apart as he tried to piece Itama and Kawarama back together. It was as if they had the ability to channel his own life energy from his heart, his soul, his very being, into anything or anyone of his choice, at the same time draining him.  Walking forward, he knelt on the ground in front of Itama, taking the younger Kawarama from his arms and allowing the four year old to take out his emotions through pounding on Hashirama’s back with his small fists and wailing into his shoulder. “Itama, it’s okay. You don’t have to stay strong anymore.  I’ll take care of Kawarama.”

 

Itama nodded, tears beginning to stream more freely down his face like a single flood, instead of smaller rivers and streams.  Then he turned and walked calmly up the stairs, legs shaking just enough for Hashirama to notice. Moments after he was out of sight, there was audible crying from upstairs.  No doubt it was Itama, but Hashirama was grateful he’d been able to control his emotions just enough and just long enough to keep the situation with Kawarama under control. He was glad Itama didn’t feel the need to be emotionless and lock himself away from them...yet.  The fact that he was allowing himself to cry loudly enough for another to hear proved that. Kawarama was still wailing for their mother, and it was shocking to Hashirama that a six year old had been able to listen to that and not break down completely.

 

Even as Kawarama’s small fists began to hurt him, Hashirama faked confidence and an assured, put together air.  “Kawarama...I’m here, I’m not going to leave any time soon.”

 

It was something Kawarama needed to hear, because his young mind thought that, since his mother was gone, the rest of his family might follow.  “How do you know? Promise?”

 

Smiling through the pain, Hashirama fought tears.  How sad that a four year old would fear his family would leave him in some manner even after saying they wouldn’t.  Not even sure if he was telling the truth himself, Hashirama assured him, “I promise. I’m strong, strong enough to keep that promise.  And I won’t let Itama, Tobirama, or chichi-ue leave you either. I will always be here for you.”

 

“Haha-ue would want you to live on and be yourself, unafraid to love, and she wouldn’t want this to destroy you.” he added, unsure if it was true that their mother had truly loved any of them, if she had even been one of the Senju capable of true love.

 

“She would?  You’re sure? And you’ll keep your promise for sure?”  Kawarama’s tears were no longer coming as quickly as they had before, and his eyes shone with hope, hope for the future.

 

Lying, the honey-coated words cutting into his throat like kunai as he forced them out into the air, Hashirama assured Kawarama, “I’m very sure, she loved you, so she would want only the best for you.  She wouldn’t want you to blindly seek revenge in her name. You also know I never break my promises. I’ll keep all of us safe, you have my word.”

 

Hashirama allowed Kawarama to cling to him all night, even as he sat there, awake, with an empty, painful feeling in his soul.  It was as if his own words had scooped out a part of himself, the roots of the tree in his heart siphoning his own vitality and identity, and giving it to Kawarama.  If that was the price he had to pay, though, so be it. If that was what world peace meant, if the consequence was that he would lose part of himself, he would cherish every good thing, so the experience, the memory, the connection to his dream and his purpose, would fill the empty spaces inside him.  Never would he take from others anything but their pain and burden. When Kawarama was sound asleep, Hashirama finally allowed himself to cry, softly, and when Kawarama awoke the next morning, he would wonder why he and his older brother had tear stains on their clothes, and assume they were purely from his own tears.  No one ever thought Hashirama might need support as well.

 

—————

 

“Who are you?”

 

Who was he, really?  Hashirama’s chest ached, feeling empty, the figurative tree that grew there already taking its toll.  He was no warrior, his very chakra contradicted that identity. It was healing, gentle, and nurtured life, even created it.  It wasn’t meant to destroy. Yet, though it wasn’t destructive, and using it for such purposes was a defilement of its very nature, Hashirama had been forced to use it to destroy.  So what did that make him? Again, he wondered how he could possibly be the one who would save the world when he was, in some way, willing to kill, some part of him doubting that it truly was simply the teachings of his clan.  He didn’t know what that made him. He felt lost. Sometimes it seemed as though it would be easier to take on the hard, cold, dormant heart of his predecessors. That way, he couldn’t lose himself among the crowd. It was impossible if you froze your soul in ice, preserving it forever.  But he couldn’t save the world without a radioactive heart, pieces like alpha and beta particles spinning away to rest in others, pieces of himself saving them, in the process, leaving less of him behind.

 

He considered again if battle and war were a part of him.  After all, his entire world turned on the wheels of violence, war, hate, and vengeance.  Again, he decided that they were not a part of him. He was the bearer of others’ pain, wasn’t he?  That’s what he strove to be, in any case. He also considered himself an older brother, as well as a cousin, a friend, and a son.  But how could he properly be any of those things when he still empathized with and wished to save their enemies, wished to see them love and live, and despaired when they too died?  He didn’t know, but he still knew who he was, could answer that question. “Itama! You don’t recognize your older brother, Hashirama?”


	4. Itama

“Kawarama is dead.” 

 

The words were like a stab to the heart, and Hashirama’s heart was too soft to deflect the stabbing blade.  It sank deep into him, dredging up all his memories of Kawarama. He had learned how to mask his emotions, yet this was too much, too soon for him.  He’d witnessed so many deaths, including that of his own mother, but Kawarama...he’d been a mere child, only seven years old, and to tell the truth, he was much closer to his brothers and his cousin Touka than he’d ever been to his parents.  He’d also broken his promise to Kawarama. He had been aware it was a promise he would most likely not be able to keep, but that hadn’t truly sunk in until his father spoke those words.

 

Hashirama didn’t remember too much after that.  He only knew he snapped under the pressure, showing too much to others.   _ No, no, no, I can’t, I have to be strong,  _ was his last coherent thought before exploding at his father and losing so much control he shed tears in front of Butsuma and his remaining brothers.  Next thing he knew, he was standing there with Tobirama’s arm between him and their father, Itama’s face scared and uncertain. None of them had ever seen Hashirama get this way, ordinarily, he was all too adept at wearing a facade.  Now they were in unknown territory, dealing with something unfamiliar, blundering in darkness even deeper than the eternal darkness of shinobi, and their permanently frozen, dormant hearts.

 

Later, after the three brothers returned from their talk in the woods, and Tobirama had dismissed Hashirama’s idealism as foolish yet again, Hashirama could see that Itama needed help pulling himself back together.  It was clear that Kawarama’s death had shaken him, and he didn’t possess the mental fortitude of Hashirama or Tobirama, nor the frozen-over heart of many Senju. Tobirama hadn’t quite reached his breaking point, but he was close to it, Hashirama could tell.  It was evident in the falter in his step, the way he tripped on the stairs, falling down them before standing up, pushing Hashirama away from him, and doing his best to hide his limp as he stalked to his room to cry quietly enough that only Hashirama could hear.

 

Itama sat in the middle of the room, blinking back tears in vain.  They dropped onto the floor, soaking into the wood. “It was Kawarama’s first battle…and he’s...dead…”

 

Hashirama sat down next to him.  He longed to be able to voice his own thoughts and emotions, but he couldn’t, not fully.  He wished he could express the depths of his sorrow and the pain he felt. He’d failed Kawarama.  He’d been there, on the battlefield, but he hadn’t even known Kawarama was in danger in the first place until Butsuma told him Kawarama was dead.  He wondered, thoughts bitter and full of self-loathing, how he could possibly  _ truly  _ be an older brother if he couldn’t even keep his younger brothers from physical harm, not even from outright death.  Despite that, he still thought he could save the whole world? Pathetic. But if no one else would do it, he had to try.  Instead, he toned it down and kept his mask on. “Itama. Do you think the world would be better if we could all live in harmony, and call even the Uchiha our comrades?”

 

Itama laughed softly, still shaken.  “You’re such a joker, aniki. I couldn’t possibly lighten the mood like you just did.”

 

That hadn’t been what Hashirama intended at all.  He’d been dead serious, and was dismayed that it flew so far over Itama’s head, because of the absurdity with which he perceived the concept, illustrating just how deep the rifts in the world were.  Opening his mouth, about to assure Itama he was serious, he closed it again, thinking it perhaps wasn’t the best time. If Itama was anything like Touka when it came to emotions, he would want to get revenge on the Uchiha to some extent.  In that case, if Hashirama were to confirm he was serious about it, it could damage his bond with Itama, who wouldn’t think of it the same way. Instead, he played along, “Yeah, I know. After all, I’m sure Kawarama wouldn’t want to see us in a slump like that.  If you think about it, in a way, we’re really honouring his spirit and memory. We can’t behave as though he was just any other person, can’t remember and hold in our hearts every person dear to our hearts in the same way. We need to honour them each in their own special way.”

 

In reality, Hashirama was blindly stumbling through his own words.  What did they really mean, what did they imply? How far or close were they to what he actually believed and thought?  He didn’t know. But Itama bought it wholeheartedly. “You’re right, aniki! Kawarama wouldn’t want for us to just get revenge, he’d want us to remember him as his own person, so he can live on in our hearts!  I’ll never forget him, and when I’m in battle and think about giving up, or think I’m about to die, I’ll remember that I have Kawarama’s memory to save too, then I’ll have the strength to survive!”

 

At the very least, Itama hadn’t shattered, so in that way, Hashirama had succeeded.  And he seemed to at least somewhat understand the meaning of one living on in another’s heart and soul.  But what damage, Hashirama wondered, had he done in other departments, by lying? That was something that would haunt him long after the day of Itama’s death, and after that day, he would always wonder if telling the truth would have saved him.

 

—————

 

“Who are you?”

 

Who was he?  Hashirama’s identity was a complex thing now, a creature of many dimensions and facets.  On top of that, another part of it had just left him, leaving a gaping void, the maw of a creature of the void, a sibling of fire, where a part of his heart, soul, and identity once were.  His world was in black and white, having never been shaken by such loss before. Was that similar to how Touka had felt when Kiyomi died? Hashirama figured it was, but still doubted if he could call himself an older brother, if he could truly say that was a part of his identity.  What kind of older brother made a promise to their younger brother that they absolutely would not fail to keep their entire family safe, then broke it? And in such a way that the very person they made a promise to died for their incompetence? It was the most sacred promise, short of promising to keep the whole world safe, particularly considering all their friends were also their family, even if distantly.  But...it was at the same time an integral part of him, and he still had two other younger brothers to look after. He was also a cousin and friend to other Senju, like Touka. Without that, he would have very little to hold onto.

 

So Hashirama kept his tenuous grip on the most important pieces of himself, but he could feel more and more of his identity spinning off his radioactive heart.  Now that he was old enough to understand what he was doing to himself on an appropriate level, he began to realize the true seriousness and harshness of the world, like seeing the truth through an omnipotent deity’s eyes.  But what were war, violence, and vengeance to him, really? Still, he did not know. His very world turned on those wheels, but it was unstable, for the wheels were like rusted gears, chipped, ancient, and with no purpose in living memory.  And, there was, of course, some other axis the world could spin on. That, in Hashirama’s eyes, was love. For if everyone loved the entire world, then what would there be left for all the bad in it? He would just have to facilitate the process by loving the whole world first.  “My name’s Hashirama,” he said, careful not to say that was who he was, because he was close to losing himself, and that wasn’t a part of his identity he was sure of. It was something bestowed upon him by his parents, but did it really reflect  _ him? _

 

“Who are you?” he asked.

 

“My name is Madara.”

 

Somehow, Hashirama didn’t even notice that Madara had done exactly what he had, dissociating himself from his name.  Little did he know that he had just found a kindred spirit, someone just as pained by all the violence, war, vengeance, and suffering as him.  He had found someone who could save him, repairing his damaged radioactive heart.


	5. Madara Part 1

Sitting by the river, Hashirama hoped Madara would come join him once again.  It was a foolish hope, he knew. Shinobi were blown about like leaves in the wind, lives snuffed out as easily as a candle in a typhoon.  For all he knew, Madara could be dead. Sure, he was strong, but sometimes, even that meant nothing. Hashirama was the strongest of his generation already, and stronger than almost all of the adults, second only the the elites.  Yet he still hadn’t been able to protect Kawarama. Then, hearing footsteps behind him, he turned calmly, knowing if they belonged to a skilled shinobi who meant him harm, he wouldn’t have heard them. As he had thought, it was Madara, step naturally quiet, but relaxed, not the silent, deadly stalk it would be were he fighting or assassinating.  Smiling slightly despite himself, Hashirama greeted Madara, “You came back again!”

 

Madara smirked, and even Hashirama couldn’t see the pain behind his impeccable facade, superior even to his own.  “Of course I did, Hashirama. I’m just surprised you made it here without falling into the river or something. I was half expecting to have to pull you out like some pansy feudal lord or lady.”

 

“Very funny.  I have earth and  _ water _ chakra natures, that’s how I got my Kekkei Genkai.  Meanwhile  _ you  _ have fire and wind, so if either of us was going to fall into a river and need help getting out, it would definitely be you.  Water puts out fire, after all!”

 

What Hashirama didn’t realize was that his words, while completely humorous to him, hurt to Madara, who was already drowning in more than a mere river, but an infinite sea, that he could not escape from, simultaneously burned and cut by his own chakra.  It was a sea much like the fire and pressure Hashirama felt from his own experiences, that which had tempered his heart, whether for good or bad, he had yet to see. The conclusion would not come for years yet. Madara laughed, keeping Hashirama blissfully unaware.  “Not if the fire is too overwhelming! Besides, wind can blow it right out of the ground, and strengthen fire enough to burn off all the water!”

 

“We’ll see which element is the strongest!  And I have a Kekkei Genkai, so there!”

 

“So?  I may not have a Kekkei Genkai, but I can use all five chakra natures because of  _ training,  _ Hashirama.  And I don’t think you considered that wood doesn’t have the same strength against fire that water does.  It’s just as weak to it as wind! And the wind can also slice it like it does the trees in the forest during a storm!”  Madara lied about not having a Kekkei Genkai, for he possessed one of the most powerful Kekkei Genkai in existence, and it would evolve into increasingly more powerful forms.

 

Hashirama hadn’t thought of this in the rare happiness of the moment, and had already unleashed his Mokuton.  It was relieving to be temporarily free of his heavy burden, able to express himself freely, and disconnect from logic and practicality.  “Well then, we’ll see how much wood you can handle!”

 

He saw the corner of Madara’s mouth curve upwards into a canine smile.  He had a brief thought,  _ like the wolves of the Uchiha, fierce and wild warriors, nothing like the Inuzuka, no, this is much more feral.   _ But it wasn’t a bad thing.  He wanted to save everyone, including the Uchiha, and Madara was his friend.  His wild ferocity, his wolflike aura, all of it only made Hashirama cling ever tighter to their bond.  He didn’t want to ever let go, like a creeping vine curled around a tree for life. It was funny that Hashirama was the vine in this case, when he could cause trees to sprout out of the ground at will.  Almost before his eyes could process what was happening, a fireball had engulfed the wood from Hashirama’s Mokuton. It didn’t reach too close to him, though. Madara would never hurt him, Hashirama was sure.

 

Instead of being afraid, he regarded the brilliant flames with awe, the light reflecting in his eyes like miniature suns.  How amazing it was, to be able to have something so mesmerizing yet dangerous at your beck and call. And how lucky he was to have a friend like Madara, who would never turn that power on him, and who was even more mesmerizing and no doubt dangerous(to his enemies) than the flames.

 

Snapping out of his trance, Hashirama saw Madara leaping over the wall of flames.  It was, after all, a sparring match. Executing a quick water jutsu, he attempted to push Madara into the tree line of the forest with it.  But Madara was extremely maneuverable in the air, creatively using his wind chakra affinity to use just the right jutsu at just the right strength to dodge the projectile.  Smiling at his friend’s ingenuity, he ignored the slight flutter in his heart, like a monarch butterfly just stirring from its winter hibernation, survival tentative. For some strange reason, Hashirama felt something like a warm, comforting fire flow through his veins.  To him, not possessing a fire nature, it was a foreign feeling. But this fire was not chakra, but love. It was love in the way usually only the Uchiha experienced it, though he hadn’t experienced the trademark Uchiha experience of the fever of the heart.

 

Hashirama barely reacted in time to avoid Madara’s flying kick as he pressed his advantage, putting the weight from his jump into his movement.  After landing, Madara wasted no time, quickly turning on a dime, jumping again, lower this time, spinning in midair, and using both arms and legs to attack.  Hashirama caught one of his arms, but was hit by two feet and another arm. It was all part of the essence of the dance of battle, of sparring, and he didn’t need to worry.  They were in perfect sync, letting their power ebb and flow where it was necessary to avoid serious harm to one another.

 

For an instant, though he was no sensory type shinobi, Hashirama saw their chakra, intertwined, fitting together like puzzle pieces, as if meant to be two parts of a whole.  Perhaps it was fate, and maybe their dream wasn’t so far out from the present. It was also enough of a distraction that Madara bowled him over, pinning him to the ground. “Ha!  Got you!”

 

Laughing, Hashirama conceded defeat, “Yeah, you won this time, Madara.  But we’ll see about next time!”

 

—————

 

“Who are you?”

 

Thinking for a moment, Hashirama realized he knew who he was better than he had in a long time.  His friendship with Madara had done wonders for him. Finally, he had someone to lean on, someone to share his burden with, without dragging them down.  Together, they dreamt of peace and unity. Still, his identity was a complex thing, partially mended, but breaks and voids remained. He knew there were pieces of him he would never get back.  It was okay, though, he thought. He didn’t need to be whole to fulfill his dream and be happy, did he? He still knew who he was, that would be enough.

 

He was still a brother, with a responsibility to protect his two remaining brothers.  He would have to keep both of them safe to honour the memory of Kawarama, and all the others who’d died in war.  He wouldn’t fail poor Kawarama any more than he had already. Kawarama had already died, in violation of Hashirama’s promise to him, but he would keep the rest of their family, Tobirama, Itama, their father, and the closest of their cousins, such as Touka, safe and alive.  He also had a responsibility to keep himself at the very least alive, so he could bear the burden of being the head of the Senju Clan, instead of forcing Tobirama or Itama to take on that role. Not to mention, it would make it easier to achieve peace from a position of power.  Despite that, he had long since discovered that being the heir of the Senju Clan in no way made that a part of his identity. Nor was it what he truly wanted. It was simply a matter of convenience and likely better for everyone in the long run. At this point, after meeting Madara and finally seeing what truly lay beyond the clan, Hashirama didn’t believe his being a Senju was a part of his identity either.  It merely denoted the clan, the family, in which he was born. And the family in which one was born did not define their family forever. Hashirama didn’t have a chosen family yet, though he hoped he one day would. Well...maybe he’d started to build one. He once again ignored the flutter in his heart as he thought of Madara.  _ No _ , he told himself,  _ Madara is like a brother to me, not  _ that  _ kind of chosen family. _

  
Something he truly understood now was that feeling of being a friend.  Before, all his friends had also been family, however distantly. But now, he had a friend so close they might as well have been family, yet they weren’t of the same clan.  Now that he’d broken clan boundaries, the word  _ friend  _ took on a new meaning and held a new place within him.  Yes. He was a friend. No more. Despite telling himself that, something in his heart and soul, even in his very chakra, seemed to disagree.  He simply ignored it. More sure of himself than he’d been for years, Hashirama called out, “It’s me, Hashirama! You really need to work on your sensory skills if you couldn’t tell, Tobirama!”


End file.
